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BRUCE  COTTEN 

COLLECTION 

OF 

NORTH     CAROUNIANA 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2013 


http://archive.org/details/poemsbyslavehort 


POEMS  BY  A  SLAVE. 

EXPLANATION. 

GEORGE,  who  is  the  author  of  the  following  poetical  effu- 
sions, is  a  Slave,  the  property  of  Mr.  James  Horton,  of  Chatham 
County,  North  Carolina.  He  has  been  in  the  habit,  some  years 
past,  of  producing-  poetical  pieces,  sometimes  on  suggested  sub- 
jects, to  such  persons  as  would  write  them  while  he  dictated. 
Several  compositions  of  his  have  already  appeared  in  the 
Raleigh  Register.  Some  have  made  their  way  into  the  Boston 
newspapers,  and  have  evoked  expressions  of  approbation  and 
surprise.  Many  persons  have  now  become  much  interested  in 
the  promotion  of  his  prospects,  some  of  whom  are  elevated  in 
office  and  literary  attainments.  They  are  solicitous  that  efforts  at 
length  be  made  to  obtain  by  subscription,  a  sum  sufficient  for 
his  emancipation,  upon  the  condition  of  his  going  in  the  vessel 
which  shall  first  afterwards  sail  for  Liberia.  It  is  his  earnest 
and  only  wish  to  become  a  member  of  that  Colony,  to  enjoy  its 
privileges,  and  apply  his  industry  and  mental  abilities  to  the 
promotion  of  its  prospects  and  his  own.  It  is  upon  these  terms 
alone,  that  the  efforts  of  those  who  befriend  his  views  are  in- 
tended to  have  a  final  effect. 

To  put  to  trial  the  plan  here  urged  in  his  behalf,  the  paper 
now  exhibited  is  published.  Several  of  his  productions  are 
contained  in  the  succeeding  pages.  Many  more  might  have 
been  added,  which  would  have  swelled  into  a  larger  size. 
They  would  doubtless  be  interesting  to  many,  but  it  is  hoped 
that  the  specimens  here  inserted  will  be  sufficient  to  accomplish 
the  object  of  the  publication.  Expense  will  thus  be  avoided, 
and  the  money  better  employed  in  enlarging  the  sum  applicable 
for  his  emancipation. — It  is  proposed,  that  in  every  town  or 
vicinity  where  contributions  are  made,  they  may  be  put  into  the 
hands  of  some  person,  who  will  humanely  consent  to  receive 
them,  and  give  notice  to  Mr.  Weston  i?.  Gales,  in  Raleigh,  of 
the  amount  collected.  As  soon  as  it  is  ascertained  that  the 
collections-  will  accomplish  the  object,  it  is  expected  that  they 
will  be  transmitted  without  delay  to  Mr.  Weston  It.  Gales. 
But  should  they  ultimately  prove  insufficient,  they  will  be  re- 
turned to  subscribers. 

None  will  imagine  it  possible  that  pieces  produced  as  these 
have  been,  should  be  free  from  blemish  in  composition  or  taste. 
The  author  is  now  32  years  of  age,  and  has  always  laboured  in 
the  field  on  his  master's  farm,  promiscuously  with  the  few 


\ 


2  POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE. 

others  which  Mr.  Horton  owns,  in  circumstances  of  the  greatest 
possible  simplicity.  His  master  says  he  knew  nothing  of  his 
poetry,  but  as  he  heard  of  it  from  others.  George  knows  how 
to  read,  and  is  now  learning  to  write.  All  his  pieces  are  written 
down  by  others;  and  his  reading,  which  is  done  at  night,  and  at 
the  usual  intervals  allowed  to  slaves,  has  been  much  employed 
on  poetry,  such  as  he  could  procure,  this  being  the  species  of 
composition  most  interesting  to  him.  It  is  thought  best  to  print 
his  productions  without  correction,  that  the  mind  of  the  reader 
may  be  in  no  uncertainty  as  to  the  originality  and  genuineness 
of  every  part.  We  shall  conclude  this  account  of  George, 
with  an  assurance  that  he  has  been  ever  a  faithful,  honest  and 
industrious  slave.  That  his  heart  has  felt  deeply  and  sensitively 
in  this  lowest  possible  condition  of  human  nature,  will  easily  be 
believed,  and  is  impressively  confirmed  by  one  of  his  stanzas, 

Come,  melting  Pity,  from  afar, 
And  break  this  vast  enormous  bar 

Between  a  wretch  and  thee  ; 
Purchase  a  few  short  days  of  time, 
And  bid  a  vassal  soar  sublime, 

On  wings  of  Liberty. 

Raleigh,  July  2,  1829. 

— »M»vQ@Q«..-- 

PREFACE    TO    THE     SECOND    EDITION. 

Of  these  poems,  the  present  publisher  has  never  seen  or 
heard  of  but  one  copy,  which  was  recently  obtained  by  Joshua 
Coffin,  of  this  city,  from  a  gentleman  who  met  with  it  in  Cin- 
cinnati a  few  years  ago.  The  pamphlet  is  republished,  with- 
out any  alterations, — even  verbal;  except  the  insertion  of  the 
headline,  "  Poems  by  a  slave,"  over  the  pages,  and  the  omis- 
sion of  the  title  page,  which  ran  as  follows  : 

"The  Hope  of  Liberty,  containing  a  number  of  poetical 
pieces.  By  George  M.  Horton.  Raleigh,  printed  by  Gales  & 
Son,  1829." 

Observe  1st,  That  Gales,  the  printer  of  the  pamphlet,  is  now 
one  of  the  firm  of  Gales  &  Seaton,  at  Washington, — no  aboli- 
tionist. 2nd,  The  publisher  admits  slavery  to  be  "  the  lowest 
possible  condition  of  human  nature ;"  and  that  the  slaves  are 
not  all  happy,  for  George  "felt  deeply  and  sensitively."  3d, 
The  man  who  could  write  such  poems  was  kept  for  32  years  in 
"the  lowest  possible  condition  of  human  nature,"  and  was  to 
remain  there  if  he  would  not  consent  to  go  to  Liberia. 

Whether  the  poems  sold  for  sufficient  to  buy  this  man,  so 
dangerous  to  "  Southern  institutions,"  and  export  him,  I  have 
not  been  able  to  ascertain.     Perhaps  George  is  still  a  slave  ! 

L.  C,  G. 

Philadelphia,  September,  1837. 


POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE. 


PRAISE  OF  CREATION. 

Creation  fires  my  tongue  ! 

Nature  thy  anthems  raise  ; 
And  spread  the  universal  song 

Of  thy  Creator's  praise  ! 


Immediately  after  the  present  edition  was  issued,  the  follow- 
ing letter  was  put  into  my  hands.  Publisher. 
Washington,  September  12th,  1837. 
Dear  Sir-— 1  have  inquired  of  Mr.  Gales,  agreeably  to  your 
request  to  ascertain  the  present  condition  of  George  M.  Horton 
He  informs  me  that  he  is  still  the  slave  of  James  Hor on  of 
Chatham  County,  and  is  employed  as  a  servant  at  Chapel  Hill, 
the  seat  of  the  University  of  North  Carolina.     It  is  understood 
by  Mr.  G.  that  he  did  not  derive  much  pecuniary  profit  from  the 
publication  of  his  poems;  and  that,  since  the  death  of  his  pa- 
tron, the  late  Dr.  Caldwell,  President  of  the  University  he  has 
attended  to  other  occupations. 

I  am, 

Yours  truly, 

*  *  *  * 
Mr.  Joshua  Coffin. 


The  angels  heard  the  tune 

Throughout  creation  ring; 
They  seized  their  golden  harps  as  soon 
And  touched  on  every  string. 

When  time  and  space  were  young, 

And  music  rolled  along — 
The  morning  stars  together  sung, 

And  Heaven  was  drown'd  in  sonor. 


Ye  towering  eagles  soar, 
And  fan  Creation's  blaze, 
«^  And  ye  terrific  lions  roar, 

*  To  your  Creator's  praise. 


% 


9- 


2  POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE. 

others  which  Mr.  Horton  owns,  in  circumstances  of  the  greatest 
possible  simplicity.  His  master  says  he  knew  nothing  of  his 
poetry,  but  as  he  heard  of  it  from  others.  George  knows  how 
to  read,  and  is  now  learning  to  write.  All  his  pieces  are  written 
down  by  others;  and  his  reading,  which  is  done  at  night,  and  at 
the  usual  intervals  allowed  to  slaves,  has  been  much  employed 
on  poetry,  such  as  he  could  procure,  this  being  the  species  of 
composition  most  interesting  to  him.  It  is  thought  best  to  print 
his  productions  without  correction,  that  the  mind  of  the  reader 
may  be  in  no  uncertainty  as  to  the  originality  and  genuineness 
of  every  part.  We  shall  conclude  this  account  of  George, 
with  an  assurance  that  he  has  been  ever  a  faithful,  honest  and 
«u    -  i^c  v,e?rt  has  felt  deeply  and  sensitively 


SlOn  01  mo  ^v._  ,     o 

"The    Hope   of  Liberty,   containing   u.  i. 
pieces.     By  George  M.  Horton.     Raleigh,  printed  by  Gaies  Co 
Son,  1829." 

Observe  1st,  That  Gales,  the  printer  of  the  pamphlet,  is  now 
one  of  the  firm  of  Gales  &  Seaton,  at  Washington, — no  aboli- 
tionist. 2nd,  The  publisher  admits  slavery  to  be  "  the  lowest 
possible  condition  of  human  nature  ;"  and  that  the  slaves  are 
not  all  happy,  for  George  "felt  deeply  and  sensitively."  3d, 
The  man  who  could  write  such  poems  was  kept  for  32  years  in 
"the  lowest  possible  condition  of  human  nature,"  and  was  to 
remain  there  if  he  would  not  consent  to  go  to  Liberia. 

Whether  the  poems  sold  for  sufficient  to  buy  this  man,  so 
dangerous  to  "  Southern  institutions,"  and  export  him,  I  have 
not  been  able  to  ascertain.     Perhaps  George  is  still  a  slave  ! 

L,  C,  G, 

Philadelphia,  September,  1837. 


I 


POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE. 


«0 


PRAISE  OF  CREATION. 

Creation  fires  my  tongue  ! 

Nature  thy  anthems  raise ; 
And  spread  the  universal  song 

Of  thy  Creator's  praise  ! 

Heaven's  chief  delight  was  Man 

Before  Creation's  birth — 
Ordained  with  joy  to  lead  the  van, 

And  reign  the  lord  of  earth. 

When  Sin  was  quite  unknown, 
And  all  the  woes  it  brought, 

He  hailed  the  morn  without  a  groan 
Or  one  corroding  thought. 

When  each  revolving  wheel 
Assumed  its  sphere  sublime, 

Submissive  Earth  then  heard  the  peal, 
And  struck  the  march  of  time. 

The  march  in  Heaven  begun, 
And  splendor  filled  the  skies, 

When  Wisdom  bade  the  morning  Sun 
With  joy  from  chaos  rise. 

The  angels  heard  the  tune 

Throughout  creation  ring; 
They  seized  their  golden  harps  as  soon 
And  touched  on  every  string. 

When  time  and  space  were  young, 

And  music  rolled  along — 
The  morning  stars  together  sung, 

And  Heaven  was  drown'd  in  song. 

Ye  towering  eagles  soar, 

And  fan  Creation's  blaze, 
And  ye  terrific  lions  roar, 

To  your  Creator's  praise. 


POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE. 

Responsive  thunders  roll, 
Loud  acclamations  sound, 

And  show  your  Maker's  vast  control 
O'er  all  the  worlds  around. 

Stupendous  mountains  smoke, 
And  lift  your  summits  high, 

To  him  who  all  your  terrors  woke, 
Dark'ning  the  sapphire  sky. 

Now  let  my  muse  descend, 
To  view  the  march  below — 

Ye  subterraneous  worlds  attend 
And  bid  your  chorus  flow. 

Ye  vast  volcanoes  yell 

Whence  fiery  cliffs  are  hurled; 
And  all  ye  liquid  oceans  swell 

Beneath  the  solid  world. 

Ye  cataracts  combine, 
Nor  let  the  paean  cease — 

The  universal  concert  join, 
Thou  dismal  precipice. 

But  halt  my  feeble  tongue, 

My  weary  muse  delays  : 
But,  oh  my  soul,  still  float  along 

Upon  the  flood  of  praise ! 


♦ 


POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE. 


ON  THE  SILENCE  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY, 

On  account  of  the  imaginary  flight  of  her  suitor 

Oh,  heartless  dove  !  mount  in  the  skies, 
Spread  thy  soft  wing-  upon  the  gale, 

Or  on  thy  sacred  pinions  rise, 
Nor  brood  with  silence  in  the  vale. 

Breathe  on  the  air  thy  plaintive  note, 
Which  oft  has  filled  the  lonesome  grove, 

And  let  thy  melting  ditty  float — 
The  dirge  of  long  lamented  love. 

Coo  softly  to  the  silent  ear, 
And  make  the  floods  of  grief  to  roll ; 

And  cause  by  love  the  sleeping  tear, 
To  wake  with  sorrow  from  the  soul. 

Is  it  the  loss  of  pleasures  past 

Which  makes  thee  droop  thy  sounding  wing  1 
Does  winter's  rough,  inclement  blast 

Forbid  thy  tragic  voice  to  sing  ? 

Is  it  because  the  fragrant  breeze 

Along  the  sky  forbears  to  flow — 
Nor  whispers  low  amidst  the  trees, 

Whilst  all  the  vallies  frown  below  % 

Why  should  a  frown  thy  soul  alarm, 
And  tear  thy  pleasures  from  thy  breast! 

Or  veil  the  smiles  of  every  charm, 
And  rob  thee  of  thy  peaceful  rest. 

Perhaps  thy  sleeping  love  may  wake, 

And  hear  thy  penitential  tone  ; 
And  suffer  not  thy  heart  to  break, 

Nor  let  a  princess  grieve  alone. 

Perhaps  his  pity  may  return, 

With  equal  feeling  from  the  heart, 

And  breast  with  breast  together  burn, 
Never — no,  never  more  to  part. 
1* 


POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE. 

Never,  till  death's  resistless  blow, 
Whose  call  the  dearest  must  obey — 

In  twain  together  then  may  go, 
And  thus  together  dwell  for  aye. 

Say  to  the  suitor,  Come  away, 

Nor  break  the  knot  which  love  has  tied- 
Nor  to  the  world  thy  trust  betray, 

And  fly  for  ever  from  thy  bride. 

— «®s- — 
THE  LOVER'S  FAREWELL. 

And  wilt  thou,  love,  my  soul  display, 
And  all  my  secret  thoughts  betray? 
I  strove,  but  could  not  hold  thee  fast, 
My  heart  flies  off  with  thee  at  last. 

The  favorite  daughter  of  the  dawn, 
On  love's  mild  breeze  will  soon  be  gone; 
I  strove,  but  could  not  cease  to  love, 
Nor  from  my  heart  the  weight  remove. 

And  wilt  thou,  love,  my  soul  beguile, 
And  gull  thy  fav'rite  with  a  smile? 
Nay,  soft  affection  answers,  nay, 
And  beauty  wings  my  heart  away, 

I  steal  on  tiptoe  from  these  bowers, 
All  spangled  with  a  thousand  flowers  ; 
I  sigh,  yet  leave  them  all  behind, 
To  gain  the  object  of  my  mind. 

And  wilt  thou,  love,  command  my  soul, 
And  waft  me  with  a  light  control  1 — 
Adieu  to  all  the  blooms  of  May, 
Farewell — I  fly  with  love  away  ! 

I  leave  my  parents  here  behind, 
And  all  my  friends — to  love  resigned — 
'Tis  grief  to  go,  but  death  to  stay  : 
Farewell — I'm  gone  with  love  away  ! 


POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE. 


ON  LIBERTY  AND  SLAVERY. 

Alas !  and  am  I  born  for  this, 

To  wear  this  slavish  chain  ? 
Deprived  of  all  created  bliss, 

Through  hardship,  toil  and  pain  ! 

How  long  have  1  in  bondage  lain, 

And  languished  to  be  free  ! 
Alas  !  and  must  I  still  complain — 

Deprived  of  liberty. 

Oh,  Heaven  !  and  is  there  no  relief 

This  side  the  silent  grave — 
To  soothe  the  pain — to  quell  the  grief 

And  anguish  of  a  slave  1 

Come  Liberty,  thou  cheerful  sound, 
Roll  through  my  ravished  ears  ! 

Come,  let  my  grief  in  joys  be  drowned, 
And  drive  away  my  fears. 

Say  unto  foul  oppression,  Cease  : 

Ye  tyrants  rage  no  more, 
And  let  the  joyful  trump  of  peace, 

Now  bid  the  vassal  soar. 

Soar  on  the  pinions  of  that  dove 
Which  long  has  cooed  for  thee, 

And  breathed  her  notes  from  Afric's  grove. 
The  sound  of  Liberty. 

Oh,  Liberty  !  thou  golden  prize, 

So  often  sought  by  blood — 
We  crave  thy  sacred  sun  to  rise, 

The  gift  of  nature's  God  ! 

Bid  Slavery  hide  her  haggard  face, 

And  barbarism  fly  : 
I  scorn  to  see  the  sad  disgrace 

In  which  enslaved  I  lie. 

Dear  Liberty  !  upon  thy  breast, 

1  languish  to  respire  ; 
And  like  the  Swan  unto  her  nest, 

I'd  to  thy  smiles  retire. 


POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE. 

Oh,  blest  asylum — heavenly  balm  ! 
Unto  thy  boughs  J  flee — 
And  in  thy  shades  the  storm  shall  calm, 
With  songs  of  Liberty  ! 

— ,.^j. 

TO    ELIZA. 

Eliza,  tell  thy  lover  why 
Or  what  induced  thee  to  deceive  me  1 

Fare  thee  well — away  I  fly — 
I  shun  the  lass  who  thus  will  grieve  me. 

Eliza,  still  thou  art  my  song, 
Although  by  force  I  may  forsake  thee; 

Fare  thee  well,  for  I  was  wrong 
To  woo  thee  while  another  take  thee. 

Eliza,  pause  and  think  awhile — 
Sweet  lass  !  I  shall  forget  thee  never  : 

Fare  thee  well  !  although  I  smile, 
I  grieve  to  give  thee  up  for  ever. 

Eliza,  I  shall  think  of  thee — 
My  heart  shall  ever  twine  about  thee ; 

Fare  thee  well — but  think  of  me, 
Compell'd  to  live  and  die  without  thee. 

"  Fare  thee  well  ! — and  if  for  ever, 
Still  for  ever  fare  thee  well  !" 


— «S^}— — - 

LOVE. 

Whilst  tracing  thy  visage,  I  sink  in  emotion, 
For  no  other  damsel  so  wond'rous  I  see  ; 

Thy  looks  are  so  pleasing,  thy  charms  so  amazing, 
I  think  of  no  other,  my  true-love,  but  thee. 

With  heart-burning  rapture  I  gaze  on  thy  beauty, 
And  fly  like  a  bird  to  the  boughs  of  a  tree ; 

Thy  looks  are  so  pleasing,  thy  charms  so  amazing, 
I  fancy  no  other,  my  true-love,  but  thee. 


TOEMS    BY    A    SLAVE. 

Thus  oft  in  the  valley  I  think,  and  I  wonder 
Why  cannot  a  maid  with  her  lover  agree  1 

Thy  looks  are  so  pleasing-,  thy  charms  so  amazing, 
I  pine  for  no  other,  my  true-love,  but  thee. 

I'd  fly  from  thy  frowns  with  a  heart  full  of  sorrow- 
Return,  pretty  damsel,  and  smile  thou  on  me ; 

By  every  endeavour,  I'll  try  thee  for  ever, 
And  languish  until  I  am  fancied  by  thee. 

4#y 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 

Blest  Babe  !  it  at  length  has  withdrawn, 
The  Seraphs  have  rocked  it  to  sleep ; 

Away  with  an  angelic  smile  it  has  gone, 
And  left  a  sad  parent  to  weep  ! 

It  soars  from  the  ocean  of  pain, 

On  breezes  of  precious  perfume  ; 
O  be  not  discouraged  when  death  is  but  gain — 

The  triumph  of  life  from  the  tomb. 

With  pleasure  I  thought  it  my  own, 

And  smil'd  on  its  infantile  charms ; 
But  some  mystic  bird,  like  an  eagle,  came  down, 

And  snatch'd  it  away  from  my  arms. 

Blest  Babe,  it  ascends  into  Heaven, 

It  mounts  with  delight  at  the  call ; 
And  flies  to  the  bosom  from  whence  it  was  given, 

The  Parent  and  Patron  of  all. 

-i®}. 

THE  SLAVE'S  COMPLAINT. 

Am  I  sadly  cast  aside, 
On  misfortune's  rugged  tide  1 
Will  the  world  my  pains  deride 
For  ever  1 

Must  I  dwell  in  Slavery's  night, 
And  all  pleasure  take  its  flight, 
Far  beyond  my  feeble  sight, 
For  ever? 


10  POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE. 

Worst  of  all,  must  Hope  grow  dim, 
And  withhold  her  cheering  beam? 
Rather  let  me  sleep  and  dream 
For  ever ! 

Something  still  my  heart  surveys, 
Groping  through  this  dreary  maze  ; 
Is  it  Hope? — then  burn  and  blaze 
For  ever  ! 

Leave  me  not  a  wretch  confined, 
Altogether  lame  and  blind — 
Unto  gross  despair  consigned, 
For  ever ! 

Heaven  !  in  whom  can  I  confide  % 
Canst  thou  not  for  all  provide? 
Condescend  to  be  my  guide 
For  ever : 

And  when  this  transient  life  shall  end, 
Oh,  may  some  kind,  eternal  friend 
Bid  me  from  servitude  ascend, 
For  ever ! 

— — <®>» — 

ON  THE  TRUTH  OF  THE  SAVIOUR. 

E'en  John  the  Baptist  did  not  know 
Who  Christ  the  Lord  could  be, 

And  bade  his  own  disciples  go, 
The  strange  event  to  see. 

They  said,  Art  thou  the  one  of  whom 
'Twas  written  long  before  % 

Is  there  another  still  to  come, 
Who  will  all  things  restore  1 

This  is  enough,  without  a  name — 
Go,  tell  him  what  is  done ; 

Behold  the  feeble,  weak  and  lame, 
With  strength  rise  up  and  run. 

This  is  enough — the  blind  now  see, 
The  dumb  Hosannas  sing; 

Devils  far  from  his  presence  flee, 
As  shades  from  morning's  wing. 


POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE.  11 

See  the  distress'd,  all  bathed  in  tears, 

Prostrate  before  him  fall ; 
Immanuel  speaks,  and  Lazarus  hears — 

The  dead  obeys  his  call. 

This  is  enough-t-the  fig-tree  dies, 

And  withers  at  his  frown  ; 
Nature  her  God  must  recognise, 

And  drop  her  flowery  crown. 

At  his  command  the  fish  increase, 

And  loaves  of  barley  swell — 
Ye  hungry  eat,  and  hold  your  peace, 

And  find  a  remnant  still. 

At  his  command  the  water  blushed, 

And  all  was  turned  to  wine, 
And  in  redundance  flowed  afresh, 

And  owned  its  God  divine. 

Behold  the  storms  at  his  rebuke, 

All  calm  upon  the  sea — 
How  can  we  for  another  look, 

When  none  can  work  as  he1? 

This  is  enough — it  must  be  God, 
.  From  whom  the  plagues  are  driven  ; 
At  whose  command  the  mountains  nod 
And  all  the  Host  of  Heaven  ! 

«^j. 

ON  SPRING. 

Hail,  thou  auspicious  vernal  dawn  ! 
Ye  birds,  proclaim  the  winter's  gone, 

Ye  warbling  minstrels  sing; 
Pour  forth  your  tribute  as  ye  rise, 
And  thus  salute  the  fragrant  skies 

The  pleasing  smiles  of  Spring. 

Coo  sweetly,  oh  thou  harmless  Dove, 
And  bid  thy  mate  no  longer  rove, 

In  cold,  hybernal  vales ; 
Let  music  rise  from  every  tongue, 
Whilst  winter  flies  before  the  song, 

Which  floats  on  gentle  gales. 


12  POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE. 

Ye  frozen  streams  dissolve  and  flow 
Along  the  valley,  sweet  and  slow; 

Divested  fields  be  gay  ; 
Ye  drooping  forests  bloom  on  high, 
And  raise  your  branches  to  the  sky, 

And  thus  your  charms  display. 

Thou  world  of  heat — thou  vital  source, 
The  torpid  insects  feel  thy  force, 

Which  all  with  life  supplies  ; 
Gardens  and  orchards  richly  bloom, 
And  send  a  gale  of  sweet  perfume, 

To  invite  them  as  they  rise. 

Near  where  the  crystal  waters  glide, 
The  male  of  birds  escorts  his  bride, 

And  twitters  on  the  spray ; 
He  mounts  upon  his  active  wing, 
To  hail  the  bounty  of  the  Spring, 

The  lavish  pomp  of  May. 

Inspiring  month  of  youthful  Love, 
How  oft  we  in  the  peaceful  grove, 

Survey  the  flowery  plume  ; 
Or  sit  beneath  the  sylvan  shade, 
Where  branches  wave  above  the  head, 

And  smile  on  every  bloom. 

Exalted  month,  when  thou  art  gone, 
May  Virtue  then  begin  the  dawn 

Of  an  eternal  Spring? 
May  raptures  kindle  on  my  tongue, 
And  start  a  new,  eternal  song, 

Which  ne'er  shall  cease  to  ring! 


POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE.  13 


ON  SUMMER. 

Esteville  fire  begins  to  burn  ; 

The  auburn  fields  of  harvest  rise  ; 
The  torrid  flames  again  return, 

And  thunders  roll  along  the  skies. 

Perspiring  Caneer  lifts  his  head, 
And  roars  terrific  from  on  high  ; 

Whose  voice  the  timid  creatures  dread, 
From  which  they  strive  with  awe  to  fly. 

The  night-hawk  ventures  from  his  cell, 
And  starts  his  note  in  evening  air; 

He  feels  the  heat  his  bosom  swell, 
Which  drives  away  the  gloom  of  fear. 

Thou  noisy  insect,  start  thy  drum  ; 

Rise  lamp-like  bugs  to  light  the  train; 
And  bid  sweet  Philomela  come, 

And  sound  in  front  the  nightly  strain. 

The  bee  begins  her  ceaseless  hum, 
And  doth  with  sweet  exertions  rise; 

And  with  delight  she  stores  her  comb, 
And  well  her  rising  stock  supplies. 

Let  sportive  children  well  beware, 

While  sprightly  frisking  o'er  the  green  ; 

And  carefully  avoid  the  snare, 

Which  lurks  beneath  the  smiling  scene. 

The  mistress  bird  assumes  her  nest, 
And  broods  in  silence  on  the  tree, 

Her  note  to  cease,  her  wings  at  rest, 
She  patient  waits  her  young  to  see. 

The  farmer  hastens  from  the  heat ; 

The  weary  plough-horse  droops  his  head 
The  cattle  all  at  noon  retreat, 

And  ruminate  beneath  the  shade. 

The  burdened  ox  with  dauntless  rage, 
Flies  heedless  to  the  liquid  flood, 

From  which  he  quaffs,  devoid  of  guage, 
Regardless  of  his  driver's  rod. 


14  POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE. 

Pomaceous  orchards  now  expand 
Their  laden  branches  o'er  the  lea  ? 

And  with  their  bounty  fill  the  land, 
While  plenty  smiles  on  every  tree. 

On  fertile  borders,  near  the  stream, 
Now  gaze  with  pleasure  and  delight; 

See  loaded  vines  with  melons  teem — 
'Tis  paradise  to  human  sight. 

With  rapture  view  the  smiling  fields, 
Adorn  the  mountain  and  the  plain, 

Each,  on  the  eve  of  Autumn,  yields 
A  large  supply  of  golden  grain. 

— *®8- 

ON  WINTER. 

When  smiling  Summer's  charms  are  past. 
The  voice  of  music  dies ; 

Then  Winter  pours  his  chilling  blast 
From  rough  inclement  skies. 

The  pensive  dove  shuts  up  her  throat, 
The  larks  forbear  to  soar, 

Or  raise  one  sweet,  delightful  note, 
Which  charm'd  the  ear  before. 

The  screech-owl  peals  her  shivering  tone 

Upon  the  brink  of  night; 
As  some  sequestered  child  unknown, 
Which  feared  to  come  in  sight. 

The  cattle  all  desert  the  field, 
And  eager  seek  the  glades 

Of  naked  trees,  which  once  did  yield 
Their  sweet  and  pleasant  shades. 

The  humming  insects  all  are  still, 
The  beetles  rise  no  more, 

The  constant  tinkling  of  the  bell, 
Along  the  heath  is  o'er. 

Stern  Boreas  hurls  each  piercing  gale 
With  snow-clad  wings  along, 

Discharging  volleys  mixed  with  hail 
Which  chill  the  breeze  of  song. 


POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE.  15 

Lo,  all  the  Southern  windows  close, 

Whence  spicy  breezes  roll ; 
The  herbage  sinks  in  sad  repose, 

And  Winter  sweeps  the  whole. 

Thus  after  youth  old  age  comes  on, 

And  brings  the  frost  of  time, 
And  e'er  our  vigour  has  withdrawn,, 

We  shed  the  rose  of  prime, 

Alas!  how  quick  it  is  the  case, 

The  scion  youth  is  grown — ■ 
How  soon  it  runs  its  morning  race, 

And  beauty's  sun  goes  down. 

The  Autumn  of  declining  years 

Must  blanch  the  father's  head, 
Encumbered  with  a  load  of  cares, 

When  youthful  charms  have  fled, 

— fC3§fcj™ 

HEAVENLY  LOVE. 

Eternal  spring  of  boundless  grace, 

It  lifts  the  soul  above, 
Where  God  the  Son  unveils  his  face, 

And  shows  that  Heaven  is  love. 

Love  that  revolves  through  endless  years — ■ 

Love  that  can  never  pall; 
Ijove  which  excludes  the  gloom  of  fears, 

Love  to  whom  God  is  all ! 

Love  which  can  ransom  every  slave, 

And  set  the  pris'ner  free  ; 
Gild  the  dark  horrors  of  the  grave, 

And  still  the  raging  sea. 

Let  but  the  partial  smile  of  Heaven 

Upon  the  bosom  play, 
The  mystic  sound  of  sins  forgiven, 

Can  waft  the  soul  away. 

The  pilgrim's  spirits  show  this  love, 

They  often  soar  on  high  ; 
Languish  from  this  dim  earth  to  move, 

And  leave  the  flesh  to  die. 


16  POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE. 


\ 


Sing,  oh  my  soul,  rise  up  and  run, 
And  leave  this  clay  behind; 

Wing  thy  swift  flight  beyond  the  sun, 
Nor  dwell  in  tents  confined. 


•fifp* 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  REBECCA. 

Thou  delicate  blossom  !  thy  short  race  is  ended, 
Thou  sample  of  virtue  and  prize  of  the  brave  ! 

No  more  are  thy  beauties  by  mortals  attended, 

They  now  are  but  food  for  the  worms  and  the  grave. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  tomb,  whence  there's  no  returning. 
And  left  us  behind  in  a  vale  of  suspense  ; 

In  vain  to  the  dust  do  we  follow  thee  mourning, 
The  same  doleful  trump  will  soon  call  us  all  hence. 

I  view  thee  now  launched  on  eternity's  ocean, 
Thy  soul  how  it  smiles  as  it  floats  on  the  wave; 

It  smiles  as  if  filled  with  the  softest  emotion, 
But  looks  not  behind  on  the  frowns  of  the  grave. 

The  messenger  came  from  afar  to  relieve  thee — 
In  this  lonesome  valley  no  more  shalt  thou  roam  ; 

Bright  seraphs  now  stand  on  the  banks  to  receive  thee, 
And  cry,  "Happy  stranger,  thou  art  welcome  at  home.'' 

Thou  art  gone  to  a  feast,  while  thy  friends  are  bewailing. 
Oh,  death  is  a  song  to  the  poor  ransom'd  slave; 

Away  with  bright  visions  the  spirit  goes  sailing, 
And  leaves  the  frail  body  to  rest  in  the  grave. 

Rebecca  is  free  from  the  pains  of  oppression, 

No  friends  could  prevail  with  her  longer  to  stay  : 

She  smiles  on  the  fields  of  eternal  fruition, 

Whilst  death  like  a  bridegroom  attends  her  away. 

She  is  gone  in  the  whirlwind — ye  seraphs  attend  her, 
Through  Jordan's  cold  torrent  her  mantle  may  lave  • 

She  soars  in  the  chariot,  and  earth  falls  beneath  her, 
Resign'd  in  a  shroud  to  a  peaceable  grave. 


POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE.  17 


ON  DEATH. 

Deceitful  worm,  that  undermines  the  clay, 
Which  slyly  steals  the  thoughtless  soul  away, 
Pervading  neighborhoods  with  sad  surprise, 
Like  sudden  storms  of  wind  and  thunder  rise. 

The  sounding  death-watch  lurks  within  the  wall, 
Away  some  unsuspecting  soul  to  call ; 
The  pendant  willow  droops  her  waving  head, 
And  sighing  zephyrs  whisper  of  the  dead. 

Methinks  T  hear  the  doleful  midnight  knell — 
Some  parting  spirit  bids  the  world  farewell; 
The  taper  burns  as  conscious  of  distress, 
And  seems  to  show  the  living  number  less. 

Must  a  lov'd  daughter  from  her  father  part, 
And  grieve  for  one  who  lies  so  near  her  heart"? 
And  must  she  for  the  fatal  loss  bemoan, 
Or  faint  to  hear  his  last  departing  groan. 

Methinks  I  see  him  speechless  gaze  awhile, 
And  on  her  drop  his  last  paternal  smile; 
With  gushing  tears  closing  his  humid  eyes, 
The  last  pulse  beats,  and  in  her  arms  he  dies. 

With  pallid  cheeks  she  lingers  round  his  bier, 
And  heaves  a  farewell  sigh  with  every  tear; 
With  sorrow  she  consigns  him  to  the  dust, 
And  silent  owns  the  fatal  sentence  just. 

Still  her  sequestered  mother  seems  to  weep, 
And  spurns  the  balm  which  constitutes  her  sleep; 
Her  plaintive  murmurs  float  upon  the  gale, 
And  almost  make  the  stubborn  rocks  bewail. 

O  what  is  like  the  awful  breach  of  death, 
Whose  fatal  stroke  invades  the  creature's  breath! 
It  bids  the  voice  of  desolation  roll, 
And  strikes  the  deepest  awe  within  the  bravest  soul. 


18  POEMS  BY  A  SLAVE. 


ON  THE  EVENING  AND  MORNING. 

When  Evening  bids  the  Sun  to  rest  retire, 
Unwearied  Ether  sets  her  lamps  on  fire; 
Lit  by  one  torch,  each  is  supplied  in  turn, 
Till  all  the  candles  in  the  concave  burn. 

The  night-hawk  now,  with  his  nocturnal  tone, 
Wakes  up,  and  all  the  Owls  begin  to  moan, 
Or  heave  from  dreary  vales  their  dismal  song, 
Whilst  in  the  air  the  meteors  play  along. 

At  length  the  silver  queen  begins  to  rise, 
And  spread  her  glowing  mantle  in  the  skies, 
And  from  the  smiling  chambers  of  the  east, 
Invites  the  eye  to  her  resplendent  feast. 

W7hat  joy  is  this  unto  the  rustic  swain, 
Who  from  the  mount  surveys  the  moon-lit  plain  ; 
Who  with  the  spirit  of  a  dauntless  Pan 
Controls  his  fleecy  train  and  leads  the  van  ; 

Or  pensive,  muses  on  the  water's  side, 
Which  purling  doth  thro'  green  meanders  glide, 
With  watchful  care  he  broods  his  heart  away 
'Till  night  is  swallowed  in  the  flood  of  day. 

The  meteors  cease  to  play,  that  mov'd  so  fleet 
And  spectres  from  the  murky  groves  retreat, 
The  prowling  wolf  withdraws,  which  howl'd  so  bold 
And  bleating  flocks  may  venture  from  the  fold. 

The  night-hawk's  din  deserts  the  shepherd's  ear. 
Succeeded  by  the  huntsman's  trumpet  clear, 
O  come  Diana,  start  the  morning  chase 
Thou  ancient  goddess  of  the  hunting  race. 

Aurora's  smiles  adorn  the  mountain's  brow, 

The  peasant  hums  delighted  at  his  plough, 

And  lo,  the  dairy  maid  salutes  her  bounteous  cow. 


POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE.  19 


ON  THE  POETIC  MUSE. 

Far,  far  above  this  world  I  soar, 

And  almost  nature  lose, 
Aerial  regions  to  explore, 

With  this  ambitious  Muse. 

My  towering1  thoughts  with  pinions  rise, 

Upon  the  gales  of  song, 
Which  waft  me  through  the  mental  skies, 

With  music  on  my  tongue. 

My  Muse  is  all  on  mystic  fire, 

Which  kindles  in  my  breast; 
To  scenes  remote  she  doth  aspire, 

As  never  yet  exprest. 

Wrapt  in  the  dust  she  scorns  to  lie, 
Call'd  by  new  charms  away  ; 

Nor  will  she  e'er  refuse  to  try 
Such  wonders  to  survey. 

Such  is  the  quiet  bliss  of  soul, 

When  in  some  calm  retreat, 
Where  pensive  thoughts  like  streamlets  roll. 

And  render  silence  sweet ; 

And  when  the  vain  tumultuous  crowd 
Shakes  comfort  from  my  mind, 

My  muse  ascends  above  the  cloud 
And  leaves  the  noise  behind. 

With  vivid  flight  she  mounts  on  high 

Above  the  dusky  maze, 
And  with  a  perspicacious  eye 

Doth  far  'bove  nature  gaze. 


20  POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE. 


CONSEQUENCES  OF  HAPPY  MARRIAGES. 

Hail  happy  pair,  from  whom  such  raptures  rise, 
On  whom  I  gaze  with  pleasure  and  surprise ; 
From  thy  bright  rays  the  gloom  of  strife  is  driven, 
For  all  the  smiles  of  mutual  love  are  Heaven. 

Thrice  happy  pair!  no  earthly  joys  excel 
Thy  peaceful  state;  there  constant  pleasures  dwell, 
"Which  cheer  the  mind  and  elevate  the  soul, 
Whilst  discord  sinks  beneath  their  soft  control. 

The  blaze  of  zeal  extends  from  breast  to  breast, 
While  Heaven  supplies  each  innocent  request; 
And  lo !  what  fond  regard  their  smiles  reveal, 
Attractive  as  the  magnet  to  the  steel. 

Their  peaceful  life  is  all  content  and  ease, 
They  with  delight  each  other  strive  to  please  ; 
Each  other's  charms,  they  only  can  admire, 
Whose  bosoms  burn  with  pure  connubial  fire. 

Th'  indelible  vestige  of  unblemished  love, 
Must  hence  a  guide  to  generations  prove  : 
Though  virtuous  partners  moulder  in  the  tomb, 
Their  light  may  shine  on  ages  yet  to  come. 

With  grateful  tears  their  well-spent  day  shall  close, 
When  death,  like  evening,  calls  them  to  repose  ; 
Then  mystic  smiles  may  break  from  deep  disguise, 
Like  Vesper's  torch  transpiring  in  the  skies. 

Like  constellations  still  their  works  may  shine, 
In  virtue's  unextinguished  blaze  divine; 
Happy  are  they  whose  race  shall  end  the  same — 
Sweeter  than  odours  is  a  virtuous  name. 

Such  is  the  transcript  of  unfading  grace, 
Reflecting  lustre  on  a  future  race, 
The  virtuous  on  this  line  delight  to  tread, 
And  magnify  the  honors  of  the  dead — 

Who  like  a  Phoenix  did  not  burn  in  vain, 
Incinerated  to  revive  again  ; 
From  whose  exalted  urn  young  love  shall  rise, 
Exulting  from  a  funeral  sacrifice. 


I'OEMS    BY    A    SLAVE.  21 


LINES, 

On  hearing  of  the  intention  of  a  gentleman  to  purchase 
the  PoeVs  freedom. 

When  on  life's  ocean  first  1  spread  my  sail, 
I  then  implored  a  mild  auspicious  gale; 
And  from  the  slippery  strand  I  took  my  flight, 
And  sought  the  peaceful  haven  of  delight. 

Tyrannic  storms  arose  upon  my  soul, 
And  dreadful  did  their  mad'ning  thunders  roll ; 
The  pensive  muse  was  shaken  from  her  sphere, 
And  hope,  it  vanish'd  in  the  clouds  of  fear. 

At  length  a  golden  sun  broke  through  the  gloom, 
And  from  his  smiles  arose  a  sweet  perfume — 
A  calm  ensued,  and  birds  began -to  sing, 
And  lo!  the  sacred  muse  resumed  her  wing. 

With  frantic  joy  she  chaunted  as  she  flew, 

And  kiss'd  the  clement  hand  that  bore  her  through  ; 

Her  envious  foes  did  from  her  sight  retreat, 

Or  prostrate  fall  beneath  her  burning  feet. 

'Twas  like  a  proselyte,  allied  to  Heaven — 
Or  rising  spirits'  boast  of  sins  forgiven, 
Whose  shout  dissolves  the  adamant  away, 
Whose  melting  voice  the  stubborn  rocks  obey. 

'Twas  like  the  salutation  of  the  dove, 

Borne  on  the  zephyr  through  some  lonesome  grove, 

When  Spring  returns,  and  Winter's  chill  is  past, 

And  vegetation  smiles  above  the  blast. 

«,  t 

'Twas  like  the  evening  of  a  nuptial  pair, 
When  love  pervades  the  hour  of  sad  despair— 
'Twas  like  fair  Helen's  sweet  return  to  Troy, 
When  every  Grecian  bosom  swell'd  with  joy. 

The  silent  harp  which  on  the  osiers  hung, 
Was  then  attuned,  and  manumission  sung  : 
Away  by  hope  the  clouds  of  fear  were  driven, 
And  music  breathed  my  gratitude  to  Heaven. 

Hard  was  the  race  to  reach  the  distant  goal, 
The  needle  oft  was  shaken  from  the  pole ; 
In  such  distress  who  could  forbear  to  weep  ? 
Toss'd  by  the  headlong  billows  of  the  deep  ! 


22  POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE. 

The  tantalizing  beams  which  shone  so  plain, 
"Which  turned  my  former  pleasures  into  pain— 
Which  falsely  promised  all  the  joys  of  fame, 
Gave  way,  and  to  a  more  substantial  flame. 

Some  philanthropic  souls  as  from  afar, 
With  pity  strove  to  break  the  slavish  bar ; 
To  whom  my  floods  of  gratitude  shall  roll, 
And  yield  with  pleasure  to  their  soft  control. 

And  sure  of  Providence  this  work  begun — 
He  shod  my  feet  this  rugged  race  to  run ; 
And  in  despite  of  all  the  swelling  tide, 
Along  the  dismal  path  will  prove  my  guide. 

Thus  on  the  dusky  verge  of  deep  despair, 
Eternal  Providence  was  with  me  there  ; 
"When  pleasure  seemed  to  fade  on  life's  gay  dawn, 
And  the  last  beam  of  hope  was  almost  gone. 

— ~<®}> 

TO  THE  GAD-FLY. 

Majestic  insect!  from  thy  royal  hum, 
The  flies  retreat,  or  starve  before  they'll  come ; 
The  obedient  plough-horse  may,  devoid  of  fear, 
Perform  his  task  with  joy,  when  thou  art  near. 

As  at  the  Lion's  dread  alarming  roar, 
The  inferior  beasts  will  never  wander  more, 
Lest  unawares  he  should  be  seized  away, 
And  to  the  prowling  monster  fall  a  prey. 

"With  silent  pleasure  often  do  I  trace 
The  fly  upon  the  wing,  with  rapid  pace, 
The  fugitive  proclaims  upon  the  wind, 
The  death-bound  sheriff  is  not  far  behind. 

Ye  thirsty  flies  beware,  nor  dare  approach, 
Nor  on  the  toiling  animal  encroach  ; 
Be  vigilant,  before  you  buzz  too  late, 
The  victim  of  a  melancholy  fate. 

Such  seems  the  caution  of  the  once  chased  fly, 
"Whilst  to  the  horse  she  dare  not  venture  nigh; 
This  useful  Gad-Fly  traversing  the  field, 
With  care  the  lab'ring  animal  to  shield. 


POEMS    BY    A    SLAVE.  23 

Such  is  the  eye  of  Providential  care. 

Along  the  path  of  life  forever  there; 

Whose  guardian  hand  by  day  doth  mortals  keep 

And  gently  lays  them  down  at  night  to  sleep. 

Immortal  Guard,  shall  I  thy  pleasures  grieve 
Like  Noah's  dove,  wilt  thou  the  creature  leave; 
No  never,  never,  whilst  on  earth  I  stay, 
And  after  death,  then  fly  with  me  away. 

-S®* 

THE  LOSS  OF  FEMALE  CHARACTER. 

See  that  fallen  Princess !  her  splendor  is  gone — 
The  pomp  of  her  morning  is  over; 
Her  day-star  of  pleasure  refuses  to  dawn, 
She  wanders  a  nocturnal  rover. 

Alas!  she  resembles  Jerusalem's  fall, 

The  fate  of  that  wonderful  city  ; 

When  grief  with  astonishment  rung  from  the  wall, 

Instead  of  the  heart  cheering  ditty. 

When  music  was  silent,  no  more  to  be  rung, 

When  Sion  wept  over  her  daughter; 

On  grief's  drooping  willow  their  harps  they  were  hung, 

When  pendent  o'er  Babylon's  water. 

She  looks  like  some  Star  that  has  fall'n  from  her  sphere, 

No  more  by  her  cluster  surrounded  ; 

Her  comrades  of  pleasure  refuse  her  to  cheer, 

And  leave  her  dethron'd  and  confounded. 

She  looks  like  some  Queen  who  has  boasted  in  vain, 
Whose  diamond  refuses  to  glitter; 
Deserted  by  those  who  once  bow'd  in  her  train, 
Whose  flight  to  her  soul  must  be  bitter. 

She  looks  like  the  twilight,  her  sun  sunk  away, 
He  sets ;  but  to  rise  again  never  ! 
Like  the  Eve,  with  a  blush  bids  farewell  to  the  day, 
And  darkness  conceals  her  forever. 


,  my: 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 


THE  COLLECTION  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINIANA 


VCC8W 


5    ,        T-*"'V4i 


